


i'll scream back to you

by FandomTrash24601



Series: Only Room to Rise [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (and any kids they might have), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Awkward Romance, Child Abandonment, Ciri may or may not lack certain social graces on purpose, Crying, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone is flustered, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Gen, Get Ciri Some Friends Petition, Group Hugs, Happy Ending, I haven't decided, Jaskier's parents produced TWO Witchersexuals, M/M, Magic, Meet the Family, Meet-Cute, Meeting the Parents, Men Crying, Mentions of Slavery, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Sappy Geraskier, Siblings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spontaneous Adoption of Warlords, The Law of Surprise (The Witcher), not much angst, only a little in this one, what a feat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: The bakery looks just like any of the other buildings in town, and Jaskier almost finds the banality of it offensive. His birth parents are right inside. His sister is right inside. Jaskier is standing outside with his soulmate and five armed Witchers and his frantically-pounding heart, and the bakery looks just like any other building.Title from The Amazing Devil's "Welly Boots"
Relationships: Coën (The Witcher)/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Only Room to Rise [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806898
Comments: 48
Kudos: 799





	i'll scream back to you

The bakery looks just like any of the other buildings in town, and Jaskier almost finds the banality of it offensive. His birth parents are right inside. His sister is right inside. Jaskier is standing outside with his soulmate and five armed Witchers and his frantically-pounding heart, and the bakery looks just like any other building.

“Ready?” Geralt asks quietly.

“Totally,” Jaskier says. “Yeah, of course. Completely ready. I just need to… to walk through the door.”

And his feet don’t move.

“Do you want me to go in first?” Geralt offers, doing an excellent job at completely ignoring all the attention they’re drawing. He’s sure the townspeople must be stupefied—or more likely terrified—seeing the legendary White Wolf himself standing outside of their bakery.

“Would you?” Jaskier says, hating how young and needy he sounds but unable to help himself. It’s all he can do to keep from crawling out of his own skin, so violent is the maelstrom of emotions churning within him.

“Of course.”

So Jaskier follows into the bakery, bereft of customers and occupied by three trembling humans. The baker himself is a tall, stocky man, his wife shorter and plumper but clearly no weakling. They make a lovely couple, both with brown hair although the baker’s is far darker. It’s from his face that Jaskier’s own eyes stare back, a bold unbroken blue. His wife has brown eyes, as does his daughter, although his daughter inherited his darker hair. They’re a beautiful family, so humble and cohesive that it rips the breath from Jaskier’s lungs.

“My Lord the White Wolf,” the baker says, bowing deep. His wife and daughter follow suit, falling into admirable curtsies. “We are honored by your presence. How may we serve you?”

“Please, stand,” Geralt tells them. They do as asked, casting glances of confusion at each other. “If anyone here should be bowing, it should be me to you.”

The baker opens his mouth, stares, shuts it. His face is blank with incomprehension. If Jaskier weren’t so nervous, he’d probably find it funny.

“Am I correct in stating that the Count de Lettenhove invoked the Law of Surprise more than nineteen years ago and claimed a child of yours in the process?”

A shadow falls across the entire family. The baker seems to age a decade in a moment, and his wife turns her pinched face away. The daughter clasps her hands together and casts her eyes downward. Something lurches in Jaskier’s chest, some hope that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel; those are not the gestures of a family that doesn’t care.

“You would be correct,” the baker says, his voice dark. “I came home to find my wife had borne twins. Astreta was the eldest, so we had to… to give our son away.”

“What does our Julian have to do with anything?” the baker’s wife asks, stern despite the way her voice trembles. “He’s dead. Died of an illness some seven years past, now.”

“I’m not dead,” Jaskier croaks, allowing his tightly-leashed hope to creep from its hiding place deep within his heart.

Geralt places his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and says to the baker and his wife, “You gave birth to my soulmate, and for that I cannot ever thank you well enough.”

For a long, long moment, there is absolute silence. Jaskier can hear birds chirping outside, the bustle of townsfolk, the other Witchers in the room shifting on their feet, Geralt’s near-silent breathing. The brief seconds stretch into an eon in which Jaskier burns and dies and lives again, trembling. His heart has clogged up his throat.

“Mama,” Astreta says in an awed whisper, shattering the painful quiet, “he looks like you.”

Geralt’s grip tightens before sliding away, and Jaskier takes a tentative step forward. His entire body is trembling, but he has—he  _ has  _ to do this. The space between him and his mother shrinks until he stands right before her, palms turned upwards for her to take. Her eyes, brown like ale under summer sun, are bright with tears.

“Julian?” she asks in a tentative, quivering voice, hands hovering just above his. He has loathed that name for years now, but hearing it roll so reverently from the lips of his mother might just convince him to spare it. She doesn’t spit it, doesn’t snarl it, doesn’t coo it. She wraps her mouth around it like it’s something to guard and keep safe, something to protect.

He offers a crooked half-smile smile. “None other.”

She bypasses his hands to wrap her arms around his shoulder and pull him in for a hug, sobbing. There’s nothing for him to do but fall into her embrace in turn, to bury his face in her damp, floury neck and fight to keep his knees locked. He doesn’t realize how desperately he’s lacked a mother’s embrace until he’s surrounded by one, and lets his own tears flow.

His father and sister come to cradle him, too, draping themselves over him in lieu of a true embrace. They’re just as gentle in their grip as his mother, just as open in their emotions. His sister dampens his doublet with her tears and he doesn’t mind at all, nor does it bother him when his father’s wet breaths gust across his temple in storm-like heaves.

“Julian, my Julian,” his mother cries. “Oh, my baby.”

“You found your way back to us,” his father says, voice broken by tears.

“Only thanks to Geralt,” Jaskier says, his face removed from the crook of his mother’s neck so he doesn’t suffocate. “He and his men saved my life.”

His father’s weight vanishes and his mother moves her hands to his face, cradling it like she’s never seen anything so wonderful. He wraps his hands around her wrists, not willing to lose contact with her. They’re both crying.

“You saved our son?” his father asks.

Jaskier knows that Geralt is going to deflect any praises. He gently pulls his face from his mother’s grip, still clasping her wrists, and turns to face his father and Geralt. There are tears running freely down his father’s face. All the Witchers in the room look as uncomfortable as Witchers ever get, Geralt included, who is shifting minutely back and forth on his feet.

“I was enslaved,” Jaskier says when it becomes clear that Geralt’s at a loss for words. “Geralt’s men freed me when they took Tretogor.”

His father, a braver man than Jaskier had previously realized, takes Geralt’s hands in his and says, “Thank you,” before—shockingly—pulling him into a strong hug.

Geralt goes with it, clearly too shocked to do otherwise. His wide eyes fix on Jaskier before, slowly, he brings his arms up to return the gesture. Jaskier can’t help but wonder when the last time an ordinary human outside of Kaer Morhen showed him kindness was, if ever. Jaskier’s too overwhelmed to be saddened by the thought.

“It was my pleasure,” Geralt mumbles. “Truly.”

“How did you end up a slave?” Astreta dares to ask.

“I never got sick,” he says, too raw to give them the longer tale. “The Count decided that I had become more annoying than cute and sold me.”

His mother makes a fierce, violent noise deep in her throat. She looks about as feral as a human can get, despite the way her cheeks are stained with tears.

“They just cast you aside?” she demands. “They didn’t think to return you to us? To your own parents?”

“They aren’t good people,” is all that Jaskier can say.

“He’s better than them by far; he refused to let me kill them,” Geralt says, sounding sulky. He’s been released from the hug that so discomforted him, but Jaskier’s father still stands close to him. “I tried to persuade him otherwise, but he’s got a will of steel.”

“A shame,” Jaskier’s father says mildly. “The common folk would be better off for it.”

“If he knows what’s good for him,” Geralt all but growls, “the count will obey my rules to the letter. His life and the lives of his family are forfeit if he doesn’t.”

“Good,” Jaskier’s mother says shortly. “It’s the least they deserve.”

In an attempt to draw the subject away from those who raised him, Jaskier says, “We had another reason for coming here, besides a family reunion.”

“Oh?” Astreta asks. Her hands are resting on their mother’s shoulders like a grounding presence.

“There’s a town at the base of the mountain,” Geralt says, easing into his comfort zone. “The baker is looking to retire, and I would like to extend a formal invitation for you to relocate your business.”

“Relocate to—to Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier’s mother asks, eyes wide.

“Not all the way to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “We wouldn’t dare drop you into the heart of the chaos that is Kaer Morhen. But you’d be nearby, and treated well. Geralt is a great leader.”

“You’d be nearby?” his father asks.

“Of course.”

There’s a wordless sort of agreement that floats between his father and mother before they look to his sister. She shrugs.

“All the boys here are rubbish anyways,” she says.

Jaskier swears his heart is about to burst when his father turns to Geralt and says, “We’d be honored. But we’d better see you coming down the mountain, too.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows.

“Everyone knows that Witchers don’t really have parents,” Astreta says with a smile. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, and Jaskier is achingly proud of her—of all of them—for warming to Geralt so quickly. “You think my parents would let you go on like that?”

“I—” Geralt sputters, his usual eloquence gone. Behind him, Aiden and Cedric exchange hidden smiles. “I suppose… having parents wouldn’t—” He searches for words, but can’t seem to find them. “—be bad.”

Jaskier’s father smiles and pulls Geralt into another hug. He goes more willingly this time but is, if anything, more confused than he was during the first hug, especially when Jaskier’s mother steps away from him to join the hug.

“If you’re going to adopt Geralt,” Jaskier tells his parents, sliding closer to Astreta and wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “then you’ve just acquired a grandkid that would love your attention.”

“You have a child?” Jaskier’s mother gasps, and Geralt is almost immediately suffocated by a barrage of questions about Ciri.

Jaskier looks over at his sister and smiles. She smiles back. Her eyelashes are damp, her cheeks flushed. She seems to be everything he could possibly want in a sister.

“Tell me,” he says softly, “what are their names?”

“Dobron and Burneta.” Astreta turns her face to his and lets out a breathless laugh. “This all feels like a fantasy.” Her smile quivers and falters before she speaks again. “I spent my entire life thinking that I had been fully robbed of you.”

“Not fully.” Jaskier shakes the arm he has around her shoulder and jostles her. “Just temporarily.”

He redirects his attention to his parents’ conversation with Geralt just in time to hear Aiden suggest, “Perhaps they’d like to meet her.” He’s not even trying to sound innocent, but Jaskier’s parents lock on to the concept.

“How old is she?” Astreta asks him. “How old is  _ he? _ We’re not far from childhood ourselves.”

“She’s twelve,” he says. “Not his biologically; she’s a Child Surprise too. He’s… around a hundred. Witchers don’t celebrate birthdays, so they tend to forget how old they really are.”

Astreta lets out an interested hum. “Tell me, how was your first meeting? Was it romantic?”

Jaskier laughs. “Somewhat, I suppose. Eskel—he’s Geralt’s right hand—had to bring me to Geralt and make sure that I would be allowed to stay, and when I stepped inside…” He laughs. “I was so stunned by how attractive he was that I blurted out that he was ‘fucking hot.’ It got more romantic from there, but that was the start of it.”

“That’s—” Astreta giggles. “That’s actually sweet.”

“Jask,” Geralt says, drawing his attention. “We’re, uh, heading to Kaer Morhen so your parents can meet Ciri.”

Jaskier smiles and pulls Astreta with him as the mini-procession leaves the bakery. They’ve only known each other for a few minutes, but the awkwardness between them is gone already. When Astreta shivers disgustedly after stepping through a portal into Kaer Morhen’s sprawling entrance hall, Jaskier chuckles and pats her back.

“Dad!” Ciri shouts, bursting into the room like the storm she is. Geralt, who had been in the middle of a conversation with Jaskier’s father, turns and opens his arms just in time for her to fly into them. She peers over Geralt’s shoulder at Jaskier’s parents and asks, “Who’s that?”

“Jask’s parents. His  _ real  _ parents.”

Ciri gasps in delight and wiggles until Geralt sets her down. She drops into a passable curtsy and then, with no warning, launches herself at them too. Thank goodness Jaskier’s father is well-built, or else he probably would’ve fallen over.

“Jas makes dad so happy,” she says. Jaskier feels his face heat up, and one look at Geralt’s compressed features let him know that they’re both feeling flustered. “Thank you.”

A couple other Witchers have wandered into the entry hall and are watching the display with great amusement. Jaskier points and names each of them to Astreta as Ciri chatters with Jaskier’s parents, who seem more than delighted by the whirlwind of a princess. It’s a hell of a sight, seeing them together.

Jaskier only tunes into their conversation when Ciri gasps loudly and says, “You have a daughter?”

“Oh no,” Jaskier mutters fondly, and steps away from Astreta just in time to clear Ciri’s path. She gloms onto Astreta, looking up at her with wide, sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile.

“Hi!” Ciri says. “It’s so nice to see a girl who doesn’t work here and call me princess. Let me show you the turrets!”

Astreta looks like she’s not sure whether to be amused or horrified that the heiress to the White Wolf’s lands is clinging to her arm.

“Quite an energetic child,” Jaskier hears his mother comment, but she sounds like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Have you introduced yourself?” Coën asks Ciri before they can make it far. He’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed and a fond smile painted across his handsome face. As one of Ciri’s frequent chaperones, he’s grown to become almost like an uncle to her despite being a Griffin. “What about asking her name first?”

“I’m Ciri,” Ciri says, separating herself from Astreta just enough to give a little bow. “That’s my Uncle Coën. What’s your name?”

“My name is Astreta.”

And, surprisingly, it’s Coën who speaks, staring at Astreta with a glint in his eyes. “A lovely name for a lovelier maiden.”

“A charmer!” Astreta teases, although her cheeks flush red.

In the next moment both Coën and Astreta fall still, identical looks of shock sweeping across their faces. Astreta moves to touch her left thigh, and Coën his right bicep. Their eyes are soft, their mouths slack. They probably wouldn’t notice if Kaer Morhen burned down around them; Jaskier knows he and Geralt wouldn’t have.

“Oh,” Ciri gasps. She lets go of Astreta’s arm and rushes back to Geralt. “Dad, dad, Astreta and Uncle Coën are soulmates!”

“I can see that.” Geralt’s voice is carefully calm in the way it gets when he’s completely shocked.

“Both of our children have Witchers for soulmates,” Jaskier’s father says incredulously. “What’re the odds?”

Jaskier drifts back to his parents and watches Astreta and Coën make their way to each other with careful steps, like a foal’s first. He’s smiling so widely that it’ll soon begin to ache, but he really can’t be bothered to care. This day couldn’t have gone better.

“You’re not as dainty as I thought you’d be,” Jaskier hears Coën say, and watches the Griffin offer up a painfully sweet smile. “I like it.”

“Your eyes look different than I imagined,” Astreta says, her voice hovering between playful and shy. She reaches up slowly to brush at the corner of his eyes, fingers skittering over his temples. “I like it.”

“Geralt,” he mumbles as he situates himself between his parents and Geralt, who has Ciri tucked into his front, “this is too sweet. I might cry.”

Geralt leans in to kiss his cheek. “Go ahead; I’ll kiss your tears away.”

“I helped,” Ciri crows proudly.

Geralt laughs and ruffles her hair. “So you did.”

Ciri leads them all on a tour of Kaer Morhen, dragging Jaskier’s mother by the hand and, by extension, his father. Geralt and Jaskier fall to the back, with Astreta and Coën in the middle. Jaskier doesn’t think she’s paying much attention to the tour—she’s spending too much time tucked against Coën—but he doesn’t blame her. His parents are taking more than enough interest in the tour, encouraging all the anecdotal tangents that Ciri can come up with.

“I’m glad we went and found them,” Jaskier says to Geralt, his voice a whisper. He’s clinging to Geralt not unlike the manner that Astreta is clinging to Coën, clutching onto one arm with both of his own.

“Me too.” Geralt leans in to kiss him before straightening back up. “This’ll be good for us. For all of us.”

“It’s nice to see that they like Ciri, and she them.”

Ciri has stopped the tour to give an entire series of anecdotes about the training grounds, which can be seen from the windows and are in use. Jaskier’s not paying attention to her words, but her smile is bright and her arms are flailing wildly and Jaskier’s parents look besotted with her.

“It’s nice to see that they like  _ you.”  _ Geralt crosses one arm over his chest to cover Jaskier’s hands. “You deserve it.”

“So do you.” Jaskier cranes his neck to kiss Geralt’s hand. “You may not be a kid anymore, but everyone can use parents.”

Jaskier watches Asterta sway into Coën’s side, gazing up at him with starry eyes. Coen looks equally as besotted as they whisper back and forth, ducking ever closer to each other. As much as he would love to know what they’re talking about that has them both looking so infatuated, their conversation is theirs to keep quiet--and although Geralt can hear what they’re saying, he’ll never tell.

After a long silence Geralt murmurs, “I’m glad I took Tretogor.”

Jaskier leans even further into Geralt’s side as his heart skips in his chest. “I’m glad you took Tretogor, too. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

He knows that Geralt can smell the pure truth in the statement, and doesn’t feel about how Geralt blushes. Geralt has given him everything—a home, a partner, a child, an entire extended family of genetically-mutated brothers, even a relationship with his birth family. He wants for nothing under Geralt’s dutiful, reverent care after a lifetime of never quite being content. While he’s not ever going to thank the Pankratz family for selling him, he’s forced to admit that he likely wouldn’t have met Geralt if he hadn’t been sold.

“I could say the same.” Geralt can’t quite look at him, always curiously bashful. “You have brought the light I needed.”

“I’m glad to have done it,” Jaskier confesses, his heart fluttering. “I’d fetch the moon if you asked it of me, and all the stars.”

“Only if I didn’t fetch them for you first,” Geralt teases.

Jaskier laughs as he’s kissed, letting the feeling of  _ home  _ wrap itself around his bones like the kind of shawl he wouldn’t mind wearing for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This one fought me at every turn, but I think it turned out all right in the end! I feel like this is the conclusion of the series, but if anyone has any pressing ideas that they'd love to see me write in this 'verse, feel free to drop them in the comments and I'll try to feed them into the Motivation Machine.


End file.
